


Of Lights and Darkness

by Ygrain



Series: Maedhros [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygrain/pseuds/Ygrain
Summary: Maedhros' captivity on Thangorodrim and its aftermath.
Series: Maedhros [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082741
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Of Lights and Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I normally refer to the Silmarillion characters by their canon names, but in this particular case, it did not seem right to let Maedhros refer to himself by a Sindarin name. Besides, I find it peculiar that he who was led by his father into committing atrocities, was later known by a combination of his mother's name and his nickname. And since there was also an option of a shorter, less official and more endearing version of his name, my choice was made.
> 
> Findekáno = Fingon
> 
> Turukáno = Turgon
> 
> Nelyafinwë, shortened Nelyo - father's name for Maedhros
> 
> Maitimo (=of perfectly shaped body) - mother's name for Maedhros
> 
> Nolofinwë = Fingolfin
> 
> Curufinwë = Fëanáro = Fëanor
> 
> As for the Elvish text: solely my invention. I presume that the song of Valinor the Professor had in mind was something noble about the greatness of the Valar and the like - however, with the story so dark already, I opted for something more light-hearted that Maedhros would be very familiar with. I also admit that I am no expert in Quenya, so if you can come up with a more fitting translation for "refill my cup swiftly/ under the tree branches/ the stars will shine in double the numbers", feel free to correct me :-)

His wounds are still raw and the burns a fresh fire on his skin, and fire also burns within.

 _Nelyafinwë_ _Curufinwion_ _, High King_.

_A king over a bond of iron, cold stone and wind piercing to the bone._

Time and again, he forces himself upwards – tightening the exhausted muscles, bending the shackled arm and lifting the whole weight of his body to reach the accursed bond, to grasp and pull at it with the other hand, with all his might, pushing his feet against the face of the rock, to release it from the stone and himself from life.

Death from the mangling rocks below would rob Moringotto of his triumph, after all, and his will is strong enough to pursue to the very end.

Neither the bond nor his wrist yield.

When his strength eventually fails him, blood is trickling down his arm to the shoulder and his breath hisses between his teeth, clenched to hold back a wail of despair: Moringotto will _not_ have this triumph.

Reaching up, he grasps his forearm, to relieve the stress on the bound arm, but his fingers slip on the skin slick with blood and the jolt of his body sends a further flash of pain into his shoulder and wrist – the wrist mangled raw.

His breath is half a hiss, half a sob.

 _Maitimo_ , _truly._

Bitter wind lashes his face with the remains of his hair – tangled, burnt, thinned for the strands torn from the scalp – and even with his eyes closed, he can still see the marks of whip and iron on his skin. No pain he had ever experienced prepared him for the malicious, purposeful marring of the vessel of his spirit, for the repulsion and terror that the torture induced. But he burnt with his father's flame, his hatred and his oath, and he endured. He pushed the terror aside and refused to be broken; he named Moringotto liar, murderer and thief and refused to become his tool in swaying the others.

" _Then you are no use to me, Fëan_ _áro's_ _beloved_ _. And let your useless pride be you cloak and sustenance_ _while I crown_ _the mark of_ _my triumph with_ _one of_ _your father's greatest work_ _s_ _yet again."_

He half-sobs, half chuckles, digging his fingers into the flesh of his forearm, the drying blood sticky on his skin.

_Nelyafinwë Curufinwion, his father's pride, the perfect firstborn, the devout son._

_How can one not follow a flame so bright?_

The hand by which he is hanging now can still feel how easily his blade slid into the body of a Teler approaching with an oar ready to strike, the blood gushing from his mouth staining the shiny gauntlet, and the other killing blows that followed,. That blood still clings to him, long after he had washed it from his mail, despite telling himself he _had_ to.

In the long, empty hours of ever growing pain and cold, the faces of those slain by his hand pass before the eye of his mind.

_Oh, father, what have we done?_

The stars, bright in their distant perfection, offer no answer, and when a disc of silver light, Valar's miracle, rises above the west, it is like a reproachful eye, robbing his exposed form of any shadow in which he might hide his guilt.

* * *

Seven times did the immaculate new light pass across the sky, when the western horizon colours as if with flame, and then a new light comes – the colour of the Golden Tree but stronger, brighter, sharper. Its brightness stabs his deep-sunk eyes, he can barely recognize the shape it radiates from. Yet, he welcomes the pain – even laughs in his mind. Deep below, a rumble emanates, he can feel its echo even so high above the ground, reverberating through his tormented arm, and he can also recognize it for what it is: fear.

_Fear,_ _Moringotto_ _, fear. This is the mark of your fall, high above in the sky. You cannot escape such a penetrating light. Fear and tremble._

His voice hoarse, he cries out the words loud: emptily, they echo back. But the new light also emanates warmth, soothing like a mother's embrace, and he relishes in it with a surge of defiance and hope, and regret.

_Why did we leave without parting?_

_Father said you wouldn't be coming and named you an_ _untrue_ _wife. Why didn't I go and try to_ _change_ _you_ _r mind_ _?_

 _Were you there, might you have swayed father? Might you have stopped_ us _?_

_Because we couldn't have stopped ourselves. We didn't want to._

_We didn't want to admit that we may have been in the wrong, and our father most of all._

* * *

The warmth is becoming a heat, a blaze, pounding and merciless, parching his lips already cracked deep, scorching his pale skin: _is_ _this a punishment from the Valar, intended or not_ _?_ He hangs limp, all the strength sapped from him, mere breath laborious. He yearns for water, but water is waves, breaking at the shore, their sound lost in the roaring fire. He could feel the blaze even standing aside, the blaze that consumes him even now, shame and pain blazing no less fiercely, and alone, so alone. No-one came to him, and no-one is coming.

_No-one can come here, and no-one could have stopped father._

_Yet_ _I didn't even try._

* * *

The sky fire passes behind the peaks on its journey, and thousands of thin needles prick his skin; heat and cold ravage him in turns, sending his body into incessant shudders, and he moans, his mind too hazed to maintain any semblance of pride.

When the sound reaches his ears, it momentarily takes him to a different place: home, basking in silver-gold light, festivities and music and the trumpets announcing the arrivals with long-familiar tunes –

He knows the sound, knows the tune, so far below but ringing clear. He does not understand how it might be possible, yet this is no dream, no feverish illusion, no Moringotto's trickery. First, he only shapes the names with his lips; then, with a newfound strength, he thrashes in the bond and cries out: a long, inarticulate wail because no words can encompass his plea for rescue.

_Help me. Help me. Findekáno, if you are there, I beg of you._

But the sound of the trumpets dies, and no help comes. He has no right to expect help from those whom he had abandoned, and he knows it.

And as if his muscles and ligaments lost their last strength in the final admission of guilt, his shoulder joint pulls out of its socket, and the bright light shuts out.

* * *

The ground is rumbling yet again, the tremors adding to his agony, and the mountains spill out thick black smoke fouling the air and blocking the light. Lamely, he is holding onto his arm above the shoulder because it relieves the constant pain by the smallest notable trace, too exhausted to even moan any more. His breath is shallow against his arm not to inhale the smoke but every now and then, a bout of cough racks him and he blacks out , only to wake into the gloomy darkness, over and over.

* * *

It takes some time before the music reaches his mind – a sound so foreign now, so unaccustomed among the bare cold rocks, in a voice so familiar that it would drive tears into his eyes stinging from the smoke, were he not so parched.

_Findekáno!_

The merry melody and the voice invigorate him. Only hoarsely and weakly first but with growing strength, he repeats the words that they had sung so many times together, in the days when their fathers' enmity had not yet cast a shadow between them, till his voice finally rings with a semblance of old:

... _mimë lintië yulma enquant_

_nuin olwar aldaron_

_siluvat valieatta eldi._..

And just as his voice breaks from exertion, he hears from far below: " _Nelyo!"_

* * *

With a muffled cry, Findekáno slips again, this time from higher than before, and barely stops himself from falling on the deadly precipices below. Defiantly, he raises his head, scanning the bare, smooth face of the rock for a crack, for a footing that is not there, unwilling to admit that he has to give up.

And Nelyafinwë Fëanorion knows what he must do.

"Kinsman. Stop. You cannot save me, you will only harm or kill yourself."

Findekáno stands up. In the light of his eyes, the rivulets on his cheeks glisten. "Then this is what must be done. I will not leave you to this fate."

"You need not. You can deliver me from it with your bow."

"No!" A voice filled with horror, and denial.

They hold each other's eyes.

_I beg of you, Findekáno. Help me. I cannot take it any more._

_I beg of you._

And his dearest kinsman finally lowers his head.

Nelyafinwë closes his eyes, waiting for the relief, and judgement that awaits him.

* * *

A gust of sudden wind washes over his face and air whispers in his ears with the movement of an enormous winged shape towards him. He opens his eyes to see a great golden orb observing him from the side of a beaked head. He had seen the eagles circling far above, he knows whom they serve and who has sent the one who must be a king among them. He is too far gone for renewing any hopes, though, all of his being yearning for a release – from the bond mangling his arm, from the pain, from the life irrevocably stained by his own doing.

Yet, when the mighty bird digs its talons into the rock, maintaining balance with its spread wings, and he can see Findekáno at an arm's length, raised by the other taloned foot, his body racks with dry sobs.

"Nelyo..."

A strong arm gently slides under his healthy shoulder, taking over the burden of his weight. And Nelyafinwë, shuddering, clings to the embrace, begging for death with words that would shame him at any other time.

"Shhh, Nelyo. I am here. I will release you."

Nelyafinwë leans his head against his kinsman. "You cannot. Moringotto himself made that bond. I tried."

"Steel of Valinor is stronger than bare hands, kinsman. Hold onto me a little longer –"

– and Nelyafinwë screams and writhes in agony as they are lifted upwards and the shackled arm changes position –

* * *

Still in his kinsman's embrace, still in the mighty eagle's talons. His wrist still fastened to the rock.

Findekáno is very quiet, in his free hand a dagger missing its point.

"I told you so. You need to – "

"Shh, Nelyo. There is a way. The blade is still sharp."

_Am I not maimed enough, body and soul?_

The raw flesh of his wrist seems black in the dark, and he does not have the strength of will to oppose. "Do it then."

And the final pain truly releases him, for a while.

* * *

A rustle of wind in the leaves. A warm cloak against his battered body, slightly jolting with the rhythm of walk, an acute pain in his wrist. His forehead against his kinsman's shoulder.

"I wanted to return for you. I did," he mutters.

The steps pause briefly. A slight kiss on the crown of his head. "Yes, Nelyo. I am glad to know that. All will be good now."

Findekáno's breath becoming laboured as he keeps walking.

Voices.

"Stand! Who goes there?"

"Findekáno Nolofinwion," comes the reply, "and I am not alone. Help me bring Nelyafinwë home."

* * *

Anar rises in the east in its glory, while a sickle of Isil still remains in the west. A fresh morning breeze tugs at their cloaks as they dismount and approach the host. No-one speaks any words of welcome.

Nelyo leads the way, through the aisle of cold stares, feeling the eyes lingering on his haggard face and the stump still in the sling, on his hair, so short after trimming the uneven length.

Finally, they stop before the kinsmen whom they had failed. Nolofinwë's stern demeanor is softened by pity but Turukáno's eyes are unrelenting, still bearing traces of mourning. Even Findekáno seems grave, looking over Nelyo's shoulder.

In the utter silence, Nelyo kneels.

After a heartbeat's hesitation, his brothers behind him follow.

Not out of feeling remorse or guilt: they kneel for him, for their love, and for their shame at Findekáno's valour. He knows this, and mercilessly used the knowledge to bend them to his will, not to oppose what must be done.

"We come to beg forgiveness for the ill that we have done to you. We come to beg forgiveness for our betrayal."

A deep sigh echoes among the gathered host. Nelyo lowers his head, waiting for the response.

With the slightest of hesitation, Nolofinwë bends to raise him. "You are forgiven, kinsman. May no further grievances ever come between us."

"Indeed. Which is why I believe another matter of utmost importance must be settled amongst ourselves." Keeping his head high, Nelyo pauses only to take a breath and let his voice sound clear. "By all rights, the kingship is yours, lord, as the oldest of the House of Finwë, and not the least wise. I waive any perceived claim to the crown."

As if a paused breath was let out, Anar shines brighter for a moment; finally, the host thaws. Words are exchanged, then first hesitant embraces.

Then Nelyo finds himself facing Turukáno.

"That was a noble deed," Turukáno eventually offers stiffly.

"It was necessary. We must not stand divided any more."

"Do your brothers share the sentiment?"

"They follow my lead."

Ever the observant, Turukáno does not miss the evasion. "Are you so sure, Nelyafinwë?"

"They are my brothers," he gives the only reply that he can. "But please: do not call me by that name."

"What do you wish to be called then? Maitimo?"

That is meant to hurt. "Hardly," Nelyo indicates his stump in an attempt to deflect with dry humour. Then, however, a raw memory washes over him and he staggers and pales so much that Turukáno reaches his hand to secure him.

Turukáno then, softly. "I should not have said that. Forgive me, kinsman."

With his remaing hand, Nelyo clasps Turukáno's, and the touch bridges what words cannot.

And a fitting name will surely be found soon.


End file.
